Heavy Hearts
by Annie Blythe
Summary: In any great love story, there is a strong supporting cast. Final scene, 2x12. POVs: Oliver, Noelle, Jerry, Traci, Sam, Andy.
1. Chapter 1

**Thank you to all who have read, reviewed, and set alerts for my stories! I try to respond to each review individually, although I am a bit behind because of recent travels. Rest assured, I will catch up soon! Thank you, again, for taking a few minutes to tell me what you think.**

**The following story popped in my head and demanded to be written, before all else. (I love those ensemble characters.) Be on the lookout for a companion piece to "When Words Fail" in the next day or two.**

**This story takes place during the last scene of 2x12.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Rookie Blue, although I do wish I owned as many cute coats as Andy. (Seriously, how? She's on a rookie salary.)**

* * *

><p><strong>Oliver<strong>

_McNally, what are you doing here? What is she doing here?_

He shouldn't have been surprised, not really.

If there was one thing on which he could have placed a sure bet, it was the inevitable relationship between Swarek and McNally, a relationship that transcended the boundaries of just "partners."

Of course, he never would have believed that Sammy would jeopardize an undercover operation. Sam was devoted to the job; perhaps more than anyone Oliver had ever met. It was in his blood, it coursed through his veins – Swarek lived for the danger, and ultimately, the victory. His was a one-man mission to clean the streets. He worked best when he worked solo, relying on a combination of police protocol and his own honor code. He was seldom distracted, and when it came to a UC, Swarek assumed the character so effortlessly, he had Oliver questioning whether or not he was a con artist in a different life. Sammy was just that good.

But that was before a doe-eyed rook entered the game.

In more than a decade of friendship, Oliver had not witnessed the temper, the emotion, the vulnerability, hell, even the erratic mood swings as frequently as he did when McNally was around. Sammy could go from maddeningly cheerful to downright mopey and irritated – then back again – in a matter of moments. The hold this girl had on his friend was unmistakable.

He didn't resent her for it, but there were moments when he wondered how McNally could be so dense. She was a touch naïve when it came to the streets, and that naïveté carried through to her personal life: For all the times she listened to her gut – and there were many, trouble-attracting or not – Oliver had a hard time believing she listened to her gut when it came to his buddy. She had the makings of a damn fine copper, with one notable exception. She was perhaps the only officer in the division who didn't notice the profound effect she had on Swarek.

As he stood on the steps, marking off the area with yellow tape, Oliver observed forensics swabbing and photographing the bloodied area. This job had required him to draw many professional lines, time and time again, but this instance may have taken the cake. He had to detach himself from that pool of evidence, ignoring the fact that the blood was, in all likelihood, Sammy's. His brain made clinical analyses and observations, carefully noting and piecing together the obviously violent exit.

His attempt was marginally successful, until he caught sight of the broken young woman rushing past the heavy steel door. Climbing the stairs to the apartment, she looked younger than he had ever seen, and infinitely more scared. One look at her face, and he knew the probable answer.

True, his keen cop senses and sharp eyes could not be denied, but the look on her face had turned on his "dad" sensors as well. He had reported enough missing persons, delivered enough death notifications, and spoken to enough grieving family members to recognize the haunted look of a loved one, left behind.

In that moment, he could fill in the gaps of Frank's briefing.

And despite the question that slipped out of his mouth – _McNally, what are you doing here? What is she doing here? – _he knew.

She couldn't have found this apartment in civvies – She had neither cruiser nor radio.

She had found this apartment because she had been here before.

* * *

><p><strong>Noelle<strong>

Noelle heard Oliver's voice ring out before she laid eyes on her.

Before Noelle had the presence of mind to stop her, McNally brushed by the two uniformed officers, seemingly oblivious to any inquiries on Shaw's part. Her eyes, wild and frantic, had one destination – the inside of that apartment.

It was the expression that Noelle had seen before. In an alternate universe, where circumstances were much less serious, the situation might have been comical. Now, to see the inimitable expression of Sam Swarek, transposed on the face of his rookie, Noelle realized that concern was a two-way street for this pair. The fear that Sam wore plainly on his face when his rookie was in danger was mimicked eerily on Andy McNally's features. Quite the role reversal.

Noelle had known Sam Swarek since the Academy. He was, in many ways, like a brother to her. In their early years together, she saw through his obvious charm with the ladies: He could be smooth, he could be suave, and he could be counted on to do one thing – Keep them at arm's length. Attractive and mischievous, he had enough of the mystery to drive girls wild but never let them get close. "Close" meant ties, and Sam liked his life packaged up neatly when he went undercover. Relationships – outside of the bond he had with his sister, Sarah – were far too much investment for a man who lived for action and took initiative, seizing opportunities to nail bad guys.

Of course, Noelle had a sneaking suspicion that all this would change, one day, when he met the right girl. For all his bravado and "Lone Ranger" tendencies, Swarek had an incredible heart. Granted, he didn't showcase this proclivity at the station, but Noelle had seen his compassionate side emerge, time and time again.

He had unrivalled patience with small children, answering questions in the community and sharing daring adventures with wannabe coppers of small age and stature. After the Shaws had their third child, Zoe was sick for weeks afterward with a terrible bout of pneumonia, and Sam had offered his help readily. He cooked, he cleaned, he fixed various things around the house (Oliver, bless him, was a great cop but a mediocre handyman). He even took the girls for walks in the park or out for ice cream on his days off, so Oliver could focus his attention on Zoe. And of course, he was cautious but remarkable with victims of abuse or physical and sexual violence. Noelle only knew a few details about his sister that had come out, late one night, in their fourth month as rookies. Sam was intentionally vague, but Noelle heard enough to guess the underlying reasons why Sam made an oath "to serve and protect."

She could see straight through his hardened, rough and tough exterior, and she witnessed firsthand the façade start to crack. All because of long brown hair, large brown eyes, and a heart that matched his own in tenacity and kindness.

When she ran into him after the night of the blackout, she had suspected the reason for the bounce in his step. Two cups of coffee in hand and an unnaturally wide, goofy grin? There had to be a girl.

When she witnessed the match between Swarek and Callaghan during retraining, those suspicions became near-facts. There was a girl.

When he begged her, desperately, to take McNally for a prisoner transport, she knew. It wasn't just any girl. This girl had a badge, a gun, and the gift of gab around her training officer.

So that morning, Noelle ignored the wheedling tone, the paperwork promises, and the dimpled grin. Instead, she patted his arms, then his cheeks, and told him to "work it out." She knew he would have to make amends eventually and broker conversation. The least she could do was give him a kick in the pants.

As she watched McNally fly by, she could only hope that wherever Swarek was, he was alive. Because it looked like the neat compartments of Sam's life had bust open at the seams, and one girl was clinging desperately to the threads.

But there was no way to explain all of that, here and now. So when Shaw asked what McNally was doing there, Noelle answered simply,_ I don't know._

For the third time that night, she offered a silent prayer for Sam's safety.

* * *

><p><strong>Jerry<strong>

Standing by the table in J.D.'s kitchen, Jerry punched the number for the division into his phone. He wanted to verify a list of aliases, known accomplices, properties, hideouts – anything and everything about Brennan he could get his hands on. His grip tightened on the cell, his fingers – outfitted in purple latex – clenching and unclenching. _Sammy._ Why did it have to be Sammy?

He heard her before he saw her. _**Jerry? What's going on?**_ It was softer, shakier than he was used to. Her voice broke, overcome with emotion. _**What's happening?**_

And he knew that the call could wait, because his priority was to get her out of this apartment.

Before she registered what he was doing, he had an arm gripping her waist, forcibly pushing her toward the exit. He knew Sammy had been made, although he couldn't voice it yet. Her frantic gait, her gasping breaths, the way she tried to resist the guiding motions of his arms – he was pretty sure she knew it, too. She fought back as her terror increased, _**No**_**.** Wanting an answer, _needing_ an answer. _**Where's Sam?**_

And suddenly Boyd was in her face, angry and very vocal, a deafening substitute for Jerry's silence. "What is she doing here? Get here out of here, RIGHT NOW!"

He held up a hand, effectively cutting off Boyd, all while ushering Andy toward the door. Andy couldn't, _shouldn't_, see the apartment, not like this. She didn't need to be exposed to Boyd's rage, not now. He could take care of this at least.

He should have known McNally wouldn't just give up. Her protests were audible this time, more forceful and laced with fear_: __**NO, Sam – **_

A quiet, "Let's go" was all Jerry could offer. One final, wrenching, "_**Sam!**_" and he had her out the door.

He had spent enough time with Andy in the company of Traci to know why her response was so disquieting.

Sam could deny it 'til kingdom come, but there was something more than mutual concern, more than friendship, more than lust, and more than partnership between the two. He considered Sam one of his closest friends, and he wanted him to have his shot at happiness. He and McNally could be a good thing, if they ever got around to it. Jerry didn't know the whole story, not yet, but he had an inkling that something _more_ had, in fact, happened.

He hoped they would have the chance to see it through.

He would endure all the jokes about facial hair, all the lost poker pots in the world to find Sam, because right now, it wasn't looking good.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews are like tiny Christmas presents! Please let me know what you think, or alternately, what you would like to see. An Andy POV for this same scene, perhaps?<strong>

**Please excuse any and all grammatical mistakes; they are my own.**


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter precedes the final scene in 2x12. Here, Traci reflects on Sam and Andy's interactions and brings us to the present moment in 2x12. Enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Rookie Blue, but I'm grateful to have my own "Traci."**

* * *

><p><strong>Traci<strong>

_Put Sam Swarek on ice._

That night seemed like a lifetime ago. A carefree, happier time when work was new, wine flowed freely, and a certain brooding senior officer was just another guy.

Traci had offered counsel with the wisdom afforded to best friends on Girls' Night: Cool your hormone-induced thoughts. Nip those hot, heady, potentially career-ending feelings in the bud. Put that attractive, mysterious, desirable co-worker on ice, and slam the freezer door. Hard.

Sure, the chemistry was there, but the timing was off. Way off.

Homicide Luke was a safe bet. Cute, consistent, and enamored with Andy... What else could she ask for? Traci had seen her friend go through enough personal heartache and disappointment for a lifetime; stable, "safe" Luke was exactly what she needed.

And Traci was nothing if not persistent. Rummaging through the cabinets for a jar, she had probed and prodded Andy. With the arch of an eyebrow and an unmistakably disapproving tone, she questioned her friend until Andy admitted the night of the blackout was, in fact, a mistake. But like any good friend, Traci didn't stop there; she rattled off advice tempered with tried-and-true history.

_Fake it 'til you make it_. Become Girlfriend of the Year. Luke _was_ a good thing. Andy shouldn't throw it all away for one hot-and-heavy night, albeit with a disarmingly handsome officer. Given Andy's decidedly indecisive nature, that night would be followed by a morning of regret, anyway.

She didn't mean to be a hypocrite. Traci's relationship with Jerry wasn't exactly "by the book," far from it, actually, when she was in the Academy. But here, in 15th Division, Jerry wasn't her supervising officer. He wasn't responsible for training, guiding, and evaluating her personal and professional growth as a uniformed cop.

Andy would get over it. Eventually.

* * *

><p>Her first mistake was assuming Sam Swarek was "just like any other guy."<p>

She was wrong. He wasn't one of a million. He was one in a million.

He took the "partners" bit seriously. He taught, he led, he followed through. He was a man of action and accountability, and he acknowledged Andy's instincts. He had her back, on and off the job. He was still an enigma in many ways, but if she could glean one thing from his behavior, it was that he cared for Andy.

Somewhere along the way, Traci gained a newfound respect for him. She wasn't sure she had ever seen a man as devoted to a woman. Especially when that woman was living with another man.

He could have his pick of women, of that Traci was sure. She had been out of the "casual dating" game for a while, but she wasn't blind. He was a cop. A very good-looking cop. Wide-set, warm brown eyes. Killer dimples. A hot bod.

There were certain things that Kevlar and dark-wash, standard-issue uniforms couldn't hide.

When he was properly caffeinated – and not yelling at a rookie for a glaring error in judgment – he could actually be quite charming. Funny, even. And Traci wasn't the only one to take note.

She had seen the bar flies on more than one occasion. Granted, he was a bit intimidating, especially when surrounded by his fellow cops and friends, so that chased away the girls with less audacity. But the Black Penny was a popular hangout, and some women, bless them, would not be dissuaded by numbers alone. There were a few daring girls who circled the perimeter and made a move. Clamoring for his attention, they flirted, fawned, and flattered. He was polite, but firm. He waved them off.

If Swarek was simply looking for a piece of ass to tide him over, any number of women would eagerly jump in his bed. But as Traci slowly realized, Swarek was a one-woman kind of guy.

And there was only one woman who could turn his generic half-smile into a mega-watt, blinding grin.

* * *

><p>Her second mistake was recommending "ice."<p>

In the year that had passed since her conversation with Andy, she had recognized that Sam Swarek was three things.

_Heat._

_Passion. _

_Fire._

He could apply heat to the most stubborn of suspects, and without fail, they broke under the pressure.

His conviction was fueled by a passion to serve and protect, and to his credit, he didn't half-ass anything.

He approached his job with fiery determination, and unquestionably, he got results.

Sam Swarek was a cop, through and through, and his commitment to the force and the civilian population was commendable. But Traci would be remiss if she didn't cite the truest manifestation of that heat, passion, and fire.

He burned for his partner.

The blazing intensity behind Swarek's glances was unmistakable. Try as he might to remain inconspicuous, Traci had caught him staring at Andy more times than she could count. Whether in parade or at the Penny, those eyes seemed to be searching. A barely-concealed tension, burning behind dark irises, was only alleviated when he laid eyes on her.

A lesser woman would have melted at the heat of his gaze.

Boiling anger. Scorching looks. Incendiary words. An all-consuming, fiery heart.

It didn't matter.

At the end of the day, ice was no match for heat.

* * *

><p>Her third mistake was overestimating Callaghan.<p>

For that, her heart went out to Andy.

Andy, who had been ecstatic about her engagement. Andy, who had been terrified that her fiancé was going to die because of a bullet wound from his own gun, in his own home. Andy, who had been heroic in her support of Luke and his rehabilitation, going to lengths to keep him cheerful, optimistic, and on the road to recovery.

Traci was no fool. This wasn't a case of "things moving too fast."

Something had happened.

She could read it on Andy's face; she could hear it in her overly casual tone.

And if the guilty expression in Luke's eyes was any indication, Traci knew what that "something" was.

She wished she could do more for her best friend. Her friend, who sat dutifully in the passenger seat, as Traci babbled about the comfortable couch and clean sheets in a desperate attempt to fill the silence.

Until Andy's voice cut through, breaking with emotion. _Luke slept with Jo._

So she did what any friend would do. She grabbed Andy's hand, clasped it tightly, and offered a consolatory, _I know._

Traci did know. And she understood.

Andy was tired. Tired of it all.

* * *

><p>The morning that she had gone apartment-hunting with Andy, Traci had raised the question with all the delicacy, tact, and grace of a bull in a china shop. <em>Is 'Future You' hooking up with Sam Swarek? <em>

_Okay, _she was shameless. But it was bound to come up, eventually.

She ribbed and teased, glad to see something other than hollowness in Andy's eyes. Andy was adamant, citing the "inappropriate" nature of Traci's comment, but Traci could see that her words had the intended effect. They brought out a spirited, feisty side of Andy, a side that had been hidden for far too many weeks. Sam Swarek wasn't her training officer anymore. And Traci knew he had feelings for her, even if Andy refused to recognize it. Besides,_ sometimes the best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody else._

Maybe there was hope for these two after all.

* * *

><p>She could never have anticipated their run-in at the Alpine.<p>

_Of all the sleazy bars, in all the towns, in all the world…_

Well, in Toronto, anyway.

She knew what was going to happen before it happened. She had the omniscient, seasoned eyes of a mother. She didn't miss much.

So before they slammed the ambulance doors, she had issued a warning in a tone usually reserved for Leo. When he was a toddler, it was her pre-naptime voice. When he started school, it was her "homework before playtime" voice. At all necessary and pertinent times, it was her "go to your room and don't question it" voice.

_McNally, go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not linger, don't do anything stupid. J.D., __**off-limits**__. Do you hear me? _Had they been alone, and not surrounded by medical personnel and an O.D., she probably would have been more direct. _Get your ass back to the station, and so help me, if you jeopardize your career or an on-going undercover investigation, I will kill you myself_. Because really, what was Andy going to do for the next few hours? Hang out in this part of town alone, in the dark, only to catch a "more convenient" ride back to the station?

Not likely.

But even as her eyes implored Andy to listen, she knew that as soon as they pulled away from the curb, Andy would be walking a direct line back to the bar and back to J.D.

A best friend always knows.

* * *

><p>After Boyd had awarded Dov his proper due, they exited the station and headed for her car.<p>

Keeping her voice even, she had commented on Andy's silence. _You're quiet._

Predictably, Andy used exhaustion as an excuse. Traci played along, gauging Andy's tone and slowly pressing for more information.

_Sure, yeah. Running into Swarek like that. Must have reinstated your belief that something is meant to happen with you guys._

But she couldn't keep up the charade for long. When Andy dismissed their "fated" encounter, Traci went in, guns blazing. _Okay, stop lying. I can't believe you went back there. That is the dumbest thing you have ever done. What __**is wrong**__ with you?_

She thought that a personal reprieve and Andy's copper training – i.e., the knowledge that contact with an undercover officer was dangerous and threatening to an investigation – would be enough to keep her away from him.

As a best friend, she was happy for Andy. Happy for Sam, too, if she really thought about it. He had suffered in silence long enough.

As a cop, she hoped and prayed Andy saw reason. Let them be happy together _after_ the UC operation was over.

* * *

><p>Which brought her to today.<p>

The reality of the situation came crashing down as she stood in the middle of division.

The information swirled in her brain, and she shook her head, trying to make sense of it.

Andy's revelation that she had, in fact, seen Sam again.

Andy's run-in with Brennan.

The horrific photos from murder cases for which Brennan was the prime suspect.

The possibility that Brennan had made Andy as a cop.

And Andy didn't even have Sam's number. She couldn't contact him, couldn't warn him of impending danger.

And if Andy told Frank – _oh, God_ – the entire operation would be shut down.

But one of their own was at risk. Sam could get hurt, and who knew if a cover team was on standby? Logically, sensibly, Andy's decision to approach Best was the right thing to do.

But sensible was lost in the fray, because moments later, all hell broke loose.

* * *

><p>Jerry brushed by her, and this time, there was no kindness in his eyes, no wholesome anecdote to suggest the "goodness" of the human person for Leo's benefit. He was in full detective mode, and the urgency of his walk suggested that something was not good, not good at all.<p>

Her eyes followed him to Best's office, where he beckoned the staff sergeant and began to speak rapidly in hushed tones.

And suddenly, everyone in the division was moving.

Best called for Shaw and Williams before hastily exiting. Jerry passed by, this time with five officers in tow, paging over the radio. She moved quickly out of the way, catching snippets of the conversation and debrief that were concurrent to the task force's departure.

Witnessing the pandemonium, Andy flew from Best's office, panicked, having seen everything through the large glass windows. Traci was perceptive, but then again, so was Andy – And Andy needed answers. It would be futile to try and sweep the chaos under the rug when an entire unit was responding to an incident in J.D.'s neighborhood.

_Trace? What's going on?_

Eyeing Andy warily, knowing that her grip on sanity was tenuous at best, Traci carefully selected her words.

_I don't know; something about Swarek and a problem with the wire._

A problem with the wire. The problem went well beyond a wire, of that Traci was sure.

She knew better than to argue or reason with Andy. She wasn't going to dissuade her from returning to J.D.'s apartment, if anything, the delay would cause her to spiral out of control. Andy needed to get to Sam, needed a shred of hope in what was rapidly becoming a dark and inauspicious venture. If – God forbid – Jerry were in danger, she would expect the same backing from Andy.

Traci knew there was no stopping her, so she swiftly tossed her car keys.

A best friend always knows.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews mean the world, especially for a fiction that isn't my typical SamAndy "Feel Good" plot. I appreciate every suggestion, thought, or shared comment.**

**Andy's POV will be making an appearance before the story is complete, and I have not ruled out other characters, either. Stay tuned!**

**As always, thank you so much for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Please enjoy this additional installment from Sam's POV. The scene provides a flashback of 2x12 and brings us to the beginning of 2x13.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Rookie Blue. Or blue sheets.**

* * *

><p><strong>Sam<strong>

_Silent._

The silence gnawed at him, an ever-present reminder of the emptiness of his life before Andy, of the absence of conversation, of shared jokes and tiny smiles in the cruiser or at the station.

The silence was cruelly reminiscent of every missed opportunity, every moment he had allowed to pass by. Every unspoken word, every hidden desire, every buried emotion.

Silence was a reminder of the crushing blow that was dealt each time she ignored him. When she was angry or afraid, when she disagreed with him or questioned his methods.

Silence was a void, a void he felt in his head and in his heart.

Here, in the darkness, he was enveloped by the silence.

Deafening. Frightening. All too real.

The silence ate away at him.

The room was empty.

And so was he.

* * *

><p><em>Dry.<em>

His parched throat was a stark reminder of his inability to form the right words. To vocalize his feelings. To share an intimate part of himself.

It was ironic, really. His dry mouth was almost symbolic, a testament to hundreds of suppressed feelings and thoughts that had burrowed into his body, unnoticed at first, and then impossible to ignore.

Hollowness accompanied this revelation. His stomach dropped, and the blood rushed to his ears.

He had wasted two years refusing to say, "I care about you," "I want you in my life," and "You're important to me."

She was important. More important than he realized or she could comprehend. And just as his brain caught up with his heart, he was ripped away from her.

Mercilessly, ruthlessly, he was ripped away, and the knowledge that his vocal cords had been rendered useless taunted him.

_What if..?_

What if he could never say the words that were on his heart?

What if she never had the opportunity to hear?

His cracked lips, begging for moisture, recalled every hesitation of the past two years. Every moment he had wavered, every time his lips disobeyed his heart, encouraging her to return to Callaghan.

He was hopeless.

And now, he was helpless.

* * *

><p><em>Tied.<em>

He had never been much for rules, but after the night of the blackout, he drew a line in the sand.

For his sanity, of course.

He would never admit how deeply entrenched Andy McNally was in his life. Her laugh, her scent, her teasing nature… Instead, he designated a spot for her in the deep recesses of his heart.

He would not dwell. He would not chase. Walls assaulted but still intact, he resigned himself to a life of solitude.

He begrudgingly adhered to the code dictated by the division, and all training officer-rookie interaction became strictly professional, business-like. He could ask her about her day, greet her with informal pleasantries, but he wouldn't press any further.

No use in cultivating a relationship that was prohibited at worst, and unhealthy at best.

They were partners.

She was off-limits.

And like the handbook dictated, he could not pursue his rookie. He wouldn't.

As the superior police officer, his hands were tied. His regard for her was unseemly, and by the end, pretty pathetic. No one had infiltrated his life so deeply, so fully before. There were only so many times Sam Swarek could bend and not break.

Without question, they shared a link, an undeniable spark and ever-growing chemistry, but he wouldn't allow himself to study that connection.

He was bound to her.

He just couldn't do anything about it.

* * *

><p>His head was covered, his eyes, blindfolded, but he could sense the light filtering through the fibers of the sheet.<p>

His mind registered three things.

The room was silent.

His mouth, dry.

His hands, tied.

A moment passed, and another realization struck him with the force of an oncoming train. An eerie echo of Jamie Brennan's words, several hours – _or was it days?_ – earlier.

_**Where's Candace?**_

* * *

><p>"<em>Where's, uh, Candace?"<em>

_Anticipating Brennan's question, Sam had shrugged offhandedly. Casually schooling his features, he replied as he would in any undercover situation. He kept the answer short, sweet, and as close to the truth as possible._

"_Oh, she's not back yet." _

_Brennan didn't need to know that 'Candace' was never coming back. As far as Sam was concerned, Brennan could think Candace was his one-week stand. It was best to remain detached, aloof. The last thing Sam wanted to do was convey any depth of emotion for this woman. It was too dangerous._

_J.D. didn't allow anyone or anything to ruffle his feathers. There was no need to be alarmed, not yet. This was just a routine visit from his boss, right?_

_Except that it wasn't, and Sam knew that. _

_His gut and his experience on the force told him differently. Before he answered the door, he hesitated on the steps, glancing at the spot where he knew the surveillance camera was mounted. The wire and cameras were on, thank goodness. He didn't have a back-up team in place, but if he played his cards right, he could convince Brennan to leave in a timely fashion, and Sam could call in this surprise visit to Boyd. Brennan would be none the wiser, and Sam would take extra care to be more cautious in the future._

_Adopting a tone of casual disinterest, Sam ushered Brennan into his apartment and asked, "So what's happening?" Eager to steer the conversation away from Candace, he latched on to Jamie's comment about 'that boat of his.' In a matter of moments, he had agreed to a few beers at the Alpine, intent on discussing future business ventures. _

_Sam had always prided himself on the steely determination with which he tackled undercover operations. He was always prepared, but Jamie's intrusion that morning had thrown him off his game. His mind was preoccupied, alternately concerned with Andy's safety and the advancement of this UC op. Brennan's second visit served only to take him by surprise again. _

_Had he been more prepared, he might have noticed the gleam in Brennan's eye, or his understated manner of asking probing questions, or the passing comment about football – _

_But his back had been turned when he brushed off the scheduled game and agreed to Brennan's proposition. He hadn't see Brennan's face. Had he seen Brennan's eyes narrow or his jaw set tightly, he would have suggested an alternate plan._

_It wasn't in J.D.'s nature to make excuses, so he simply offered to meet Brennan at the Alpine. Shrugging on his jacket, he made a mental note to contact Boyd before Brennan spoke again._

"_No use taking two cars. I'm right outside."_

_This time, there really was no reason to refuse him – not if he wanted to remain above suspicion – so Sam readily agreed. Unbeknownst to him, he had effectively delivered himself into Brennan's hands, wrapped in shiny paper and tied with ribbon._

_As he turned to lock his front door, he felt something heavy and blunt hit the side of his head. Winded and disoriented, he fell to his knees, and only vaguely registered Brennan's grip as his body was dragged across the hallway._

_The sweet, sticky scent of blood and rust permeated the air._

_The thump of his body echoed off the hard grain of the wooden steps._

_Sam blacked out before they reached the bottom._

* * *

><p>Shaken by the disjointed memory, Sam began to struggle against the secure knots. His keen cop senses had taken note of the external environment, the chill in the air, the tightness of the cloth that bound his body to the hardback chair. As he shifted against the ties, he heard the calculated tenor of his former boss and stilled at once.<p>

"Good." Brennan's voice rang with false sincerity. "I was starting to worry."

Sam's ears registered the approaching footsteps as Brennan demanded, "Hold still." Removing the dark cloth that had obstructed Sam's vision, he smiled cruelly and stepped back.

Bright light streamed in through the window, catching Sam off guard. It had been early evening when Brennan visited J.D.'s apartment, so at least twelve hours had passed. He made every effort to regulate his breathing, as the implications of his abduction struck him. A lot could happen in twelve hours.

Sam blinked furiously and attempted to dislodge the fuzziness in his brain. He had only one concern. Only one thought that invaded his stream of consciousness and shook him to the core.

Something was wrong, and if he had been made, Andy was in danger too.

_**Where the hell is Candace?**_

* * *

><p><strong>Andy's POV is next and will be the last in this series. Thank you, as always, for reading.<strong>

**Reviews are a soothing balm for Sam's injuries! If you have a moment, please feel free to share your comments, suggestions, and thoughts.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you to all who have read, reviewed, and set various alerts for the story thus far. I'm sad to conclude this particular series, but I'm grateful for the generous responses!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Rookie Blue.**

* * *

><p><strong>Andy<strong>

_**"I can't risk this."**_

This was one of those moments she wished Sam was there to talk her through the laundry cycle of emotions. She was spinning out on her own, an endless cycle of "repeat," rolling and churning and tumbling.

He would tell her to breathe.

Tell her that she was overthinking.

Tell her it would all be okay.

Hell – he didn't even need to tell her, he could show her.

A warm hand on her shoulder.

An unbidden "_McNally_" slipping from his lips.

_That_ look, those imploring eyes, his dark gaze boring into her soul, making her feel naked in a way that was terrifying and invigorating and _real_.

She had never felt so exposed around a man – hell, around a person – before; he made her heart soar and her stomach drop, and she wanted him, needed him, _ached_ for him.

Those three weeks before the Alpine were torture, yes, but it was a bearable torture. She may have been functioning at a low level, but she was still functioning.

Now, the absence was acute, like the sharp prick of a thousand tiny daggers. She was riddled with self-doubt and second-guessing and choking sorrow.

Her thoughts raced, tears clouded her vision, and remorse swaddled her tightly, consuming her, making it difficult to breathe.

If his safety meant the end of her career, she would make that exchange. She had made her bed and would lie in it.

If it came down to it, she would lie alone.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"Once – after the first time – twice<strong>__."_

She could barely meet Frank's eyes. It was… She didn't have words, but she knew that she had never felt like _this _before. She sat, stewing in a private world of self-loathing and frustration, before she was forced to recount her sins. Every movement, every decision.

Going to the Alpine. Returning to the Alpine. Following Sam back to his apartment. Answering his phone call at the Penny and meeting him again, against all sane logic and reason. Staying the night. Getting caught by Brennan.

The car ride, the conversation, and the warning issued from Brennan's mouth.

Brennan, who had a reputation of sniffing rats out, had spent the better part of the afternoon questioning Candace. She hadn't missed the hint of menace that lurked behind those steel-grey eyes and that reformed, fatherly façade.

She described the liaison, moment by moment. One by one, she accounted for her mistakes. Dissecting them under the harsh lights of the station? It made every decision seem more reckless, irresponsible, and imprudent. No less than she deserved, she supposed.

The austere fluorescent lighting illuminated every private moment and exposed every weakness.

The cold, clinical office atmosphere seemed to highlight every flaw in her ill-conceived world, a world that for a precious few hours had been nothing short of perfect.

Under the guise of Candace, insurance agent, she had rationalized her behavior. Now as Andy McNally, officer, she was forced to acknowledge the reality of her own poor judgment.

Every excuse was too feeble, too flimsy, even to her own ears.

She didn't try to justify. She settled for facts.

Facts solved cases. Facts brought down suspects and convicted them. Facts would help bring Sam home.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"I'm sorry."<strong>_

Her inner monologue was far from the tidy, cut-and-dry account she wanted to give to Frank.

She couldn't shut off her emotional response, not entirely.

She had endangered the case and potentially compromised Sam's position in Brennan's employ. Best was right to yell at her. She had knowingly put an undercover officer's life in danger.

She had disregarded all protocol. Her oath to serve and protect was as much a part of her as the blood that pumped through her veins, and yet the sheer bliss of finally, _finally_ being in Sam's arms made her forget about the threat of exposure. She threw caution to the wind, rules be damned.

She had disappointed her boss and in all likelihood perpetuated the stereotype that McNallys were screw-ups. She was a legacy cop with a tarnished reputation, like the father who had come before her. A new badge wasn't the difference between success and failure. In full knowledge, she had ruined the one good, stable part of her life.

Pain. Shame. Guilt.

Her body was host to parasitic misery.

But regret?

Never regret. She could be ashamed of the timing of her actions, of her own lapses in judgment, but she would never regret what happened with him. The beauty and vulnerability and excruciating joy of two hearts and two bodies coming together.

_Never _regret.

She could only hope Sam felt the same way.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"Frank, you got a minute? We got a situation. We need to talk now."<strong>_

They were interrupted by Jerry. She caught snippets of the whispering, the urgency of the conversation, but in large part she was focused on her mental diatribe. She acknowledged Frank's parting words – "Stay here," and that firm command was the only thing to keep her rooted to the chair.

She owed it to Frank, to the badge. The least she could do was sit quietly in his office and wait for further instruction. She hung her head, unsure if the shiver that swept through her body was prompted by the cool air penetrating her thin cardigan or the knowledge that Sam was working for a known but heretofore elusive murderer. A murderer who specialized in gruesome torture, leaving his victims nearly unidentifiable.

Her head was a swirl of emotion, but she was determined to hold it together.

In a few moments, Frank would make the call.

Boyd would undoubtedly yell, curse, and otherwise verbally demean her. Anyone in a twenty-mile radius was likely to hear him.

All of her colleagues would know: Fifteen was nothing if not a teenage gossip circuit.

Maybe she would be kicked off the force…

But if Sam were delivered back to Fifteen safely, unscarred and unscathed, it would be worth it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"All right, let's go."<strong>_

Her plans to sit quietly and await the consequences were sensible, perhaps even noble in this grand circus of deception and undercover pretext. That is, until she heard the flurry of commotion on the division floor. One look at Jerry's face was the only confirmation she needed – Something was wrong. Disastrously wrong.

Frank shrugged on his jacket, Andy's presence in his office long-forgotten.

Noelle, then Oliver, ran across the division floor.

Jerry barked into a walkie-talkie, five officers hot on his heels.

And every fiber of her being sounded the alarm.

For the first time in her life, she wasn't paralyzed. She knew she had to move.

_Moving_ had always been Sam's role. It had been Sam to take action, to instruct, to command in her weak moments. He drew her from the shell to which she so often retreated, trembling and terrified.

When she found her dad, covered in blood, memory wiped of the night before, she had feared the worst. An incriminating three rounds discharged from his gun? The plausible explanations were few. But it was Sam who had taken the lead, every bit as supportive of her as he would be for his own flesh and blood: "_Well, what we're not going to do is jump to conclusions, okay? All we know for sure is that your dad was drinking last night and tailing Calisiak… So we piece together his night, figure out what really happened, and go from there. Ok_?"

When she found Luke lying in a pool of blood, a gaping hole in his abdomen, she had looked to him, stricken by the sight of her fiancé bleeding out and shot with his own weapon, no less. Every pointed remark Sam had made about her being too young for marriage was forgotten in the wake of the unfolding scene. Once again, Sam was the one to command: "_He's breathing. Cloths, get some cloths from the kitchen. Cloths, McNally, get some cloths or towels or whatever from the kitchen, alright? He's still alive… Alright, just apply pressure there. Okay, it's gonna be alright. Look at me, alright? He's gonna be fine; he's still alive, just stay with me, alright?_"

He knew what to do. He knew what to say. He was proactive when she was paralyzed; he was moving when she was motionless.

It was her turn to move.

For Sam.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"I don't know; something about Swarek and a problem with the wire."<strong>_

She saw Traci's reticence to share; she read it in her wide, brown eyes. She heard the implied threat that lingered in the wake of carefully selected words, and she knew that "danger" didn't begin to cover the scope of the incident.

But Traci cautioned; she did not obstruct. She would not attempt to prevent Andy's exit or deter her from leaving. Instead, she swiftly tossed her car keys, and Andy moved toward the door with the purpose of a woman who would move heaven and earth to reach her man.

Attempting to turn on the ignition, her hand fumbled once with the keys, the only indication of how badly shaken she was.

Her concession to fear was brief and blinding. She had never admitted her trepidation about life, love, and her job – not fully, at least – to anyone but Sam, and she wasn't going to start the self-examination or self-help now.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white with her efforts.

For the first time in her life, Andy McNally wasn't overthinking.

Her mind was frighteningly blank, wiped of immediate emotion. She had exactly one mission: Get to Sam. _Now._

It felt good to floor the accelerator. Who was going to stop her?

* * *

><p>In years to come, Andy would remember the uninterrupted moments of peace and security wrapped in Sam's arms. She would touch her face, recalling the smile that tugged on the corners of her lips when she left J.D.'s apartment. That delighted, sated feeling of happiness and excitement, tempered with an inkling of "<em>I can't believe this finally happened for us<em>."

She would recall, with startling clarity, the way he lowered his lips to her bare shoulder, whispering against her collarbone, her neck, before lazily rubbing his cheek against hers, finding her lips again.

She would smile softly, for they moved in tandem easily, two pieces that _just fit_. Anticipating each other's motions as if this were just a normal day on the job. Responding in kind. No words were necessary for two who knew each other so well.

Emotional intimacy predated physical intimacy.

Gentle hands, beseeching eyes, and tiny sighs replaced the need – the desire, really – for verbal exchanges.

His hands directed and guided, lightly grazing every inch of her skin, softer than she could have ever imagined. With a quiet reverence, he stroked her side and set her body alight with warmth, an all-consuming flame of passion and tenderness. His eyes locked on her face, memorizing every vulnerable expression that played across her features.

Every moment was new, and yet every moment was familiar.

It wasn't primal physical attraction, the magnetism that had them leaning into each other's touch in the parking lot of the Penny after her second shift.

It wasn't barely-concealed hunger, the frantic and frenzied movement of the blackout that overlooked reason and settled for immediate comfort and contact.

It wasn't a tentative dance, faltering steps and timid advances, the "Will he? Won't he?" moment of their last shift before he went under, when lips moved closer before common sense won out.

No, it was mutual veneration and acceptance and the promise of something more.

It was painfully honest and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Ten days from now, ten years from now, _that _image would greet her.

But no such thoughts comforted her now.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"McNally, what are you doing here?"<strong>_

She wasn't sure how she reached the apartment. One moment she was backing out of the Division parking lot, and the next, she was pulling on to J.D.'s drive. She had no recollection of traffic lights, speed warnings, or other vehicles on the road as she carelessly parked the car and sprinted to the loft.

Her whole body was operating on cruise control, and for someone who usually talked in circles and codes and mumbled metaphors, she had very little to say. Her face plainly outlined her intentions. Nothing was going to stop her from entering that apartment. Nothing.

She had the presence of mind to remove her badge from her pocket, flashing it toward the guard stationed at the door. _Get inside, get to him,_ her brain chanted; her mind operating on one track for perhaps the first time in her life.

She stopped abruptly after crossing the threshold. Her eyes took in the blood stains on the steps immediately: Dark and grisly, they were impossible to miss against the pale, unstained grain of the staircase.

Now she was dizzy, swallowing bile, as her eyes widened perceptibly. _Blood_.

Injured? Tortured? De-

_No._

Her mission was no less clear but any attempt at a stoic façade quickly slipped through her fingers.

She pushed past faces, bodies, without paying attention to them.

Her eyes slid over them as if they were invisible; all sound fell on deaf ears. The external world disappeared from her sensory perception.

This was a new kind of terror. Gripping and unyielding.

It crashed over her in waves.

Not the lazy waves of affection and comfort and sheer bliss she had come to know in Sam's company. Not waves that lapped on a beach of sweet gestures and soft words and lingering kisses.

No, these waves crashed with thunderous force, rocking the very world as she knew and saw it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"What is she doing here?"<strong>_

Her heart pounded in her ears as she ascended the stairs, and as she swiped her tongue over her bottom lip, she tasted the faint, metallic tang of blood. Until that moment, she hadn't been aware that her teeth had punctured the skin.

Pulse raced.

Pupils dilated.

Adrenaline surged.

Time stopped.

_Get to him._

It was a cruel race, a competition between head and heart as every muscle burned, propelling her up the flight of stairs. Her lungs protested, her chest cavity nearly burst open from the effort, but if searing pain was the price she had to pay to see Sam in the flesh, she would take it, one hundred times over.

A thousand different images bombarded her.

Maybe there was an altercation with Brennan. Sam could hold his own in a fight, right? He was probably upstairs, giving his statement, or maybe Oliver had made him go see an emergency medical technician. He could be in debrief, wrapping up loose ends while the coppers swept his apartment. Where had she left her phone? Maybe he was trying to call her at this very moment…

The chances were slim, minute, perhaps nonexistent, but she clung to the possibility with every fiber of her being, desperately cleaving to that lone spark of hope. Faint hope, yes, but it was better than acknowledging the alternative. Permanent injury, or long-standing effects from torture, or _God forbid_ –

She could no longer keep the crushing panic at bay.

The main room was a flurry of uniformed officers, scouring the apartment and leaving no cushion unturned, swabbing and photographing and documenting evidence. Candace and J.D.'s little bubble of solitude had been infiltrated, and the scene was jarring.

If she could just sit on the bed and collect her thoughts for a moment, perhaps Sam would appear, offering reassurances and encouragement before shaking his head and smirking, gathering her in his arms.

Eyes roved frantically, looking for something – someone – to settle on.

_Jerry._

Answers.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"Jerry. What's going on? What's happening?"<strong>_

Was that her voice? All quiet desperation and frightened edge and shaking tenor?

She didn't know.

Her throat closed and she swallowed hard, fighting to control the tremor that pulsed through her body.

She didn't register Jerry's firm grip on her arm, not immediately, as he attempted to ease her away from the crime scene. She sucked in a sharp breath.

That's what this was. A crime scene.

"**No**."

Her brain struggled to grasp the concept.

"**Where's Sam?"**

But she knew. She could read the dejection in Jerry's face, tempered with sympathy for her present state, no doubt. He guided her, pushing her toward the door. Her eyes were everywhere, all over the room before she became conscious of his movements. The second she realized what he was doing, she resisted.

Boyd loomed in front of her, yelling, but she didn't hear a word that came from his mouth.

She fought back, crying out against the forced immobility and the restriction and the silence, and _oh God_, would someone answer her?

"**NO, Sam."**

She clawed, she threw her whole weight into Jerry's body, no longer worried about appearances and expressions and holding it together.

_He had to be here. He had to be_.

"**Sam!"**

Her voice broke, and she half-sobbed as she inhaled deep, gasping breaths, desperate to replenish the oxygen that had ceased to circulate through her body. She wasn't imagining the higher pitch of her voice. Suddenly, the weight of the past five hours came crashing down on her. Every ounce of emotional baggage hit her with the weight of a hundred bricks, and her knees buckled.

Jerry was on the phone again, and after recruiting a uniformed officer to look after her, he released his grip, squeezing her arm lightly before he returned to the apartment.

He didn't employ words as a balm; in fact, he didn't say anything. For that, she was grateful.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Silence.<strong>_

Traci arrived in a cruiser twenty-five minutes later, approaching her as one would approach a wounded wild animal. Waving away the nearby officer, Traci move toward Andy slowly, cautiously. Reaching for her shoulder, she began in a tentative voice, "Andy?"

Andy was sitting on the curb, eyes rimmed with red from tears, a defeated slump to her shoulders. Exhaustion had set in, and she couldn't bring herself to answer Traci. Not yet.

On more than one occasion, Sam had touched her to reassure himself that she was fine.

Until today, she didn't realize how much she needed his touch.

* * *

><p><em>Fin.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Once again, thank you for taking the time to read this series. Truth be told, I'm toying with the idea of another story... We've seen reflections from these characters <em>after<em> Sam is taken, perhaps we could explore reactions when he is finally found? (The scene in that house is chilling!)**

**If this idea might whet your literary appetite, please let me know. Until next time, happy reading.**


End file.
